You Are Not Ted Hughes
You stained me,
with stories about saving me,
borrowing every line for your bestseller,
from the letters of my life,
and I tried to be grateful,
that I was of such interest,
to a cloud of Charlie Brooker books,
that had suddenly seen me,
for the very first time,
but I had to decline,
dropping a single kiss,
on your coarse curls,
before leaving you,
and your messy kitchen.
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